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Tattered Princess
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My tattered princess pines away,
Cut off from any aid,
Reigns o’er a dead, polluted realm
Behind her palisade.
She rules atop a broken throne,
Her prideful chin held high,
Defiance in her regal voice
Turned to a mournful sigh.
Her garment, fine and beautiful -
A royal purple gown -
Is little more than filthy rags,
Now faded, torn and brown.
Words of honor, gifts of gold,
Heaped up before her eyes,
Long ago, had been revealed,
As counterfeits and lies.
Her court, a prison made of stone,
Gay colors once displayed.
A winter wind the only sound
Where once her minstrels played.
A canopy of angry clouds
Now blankets her domain,
Bringing thunder, wind and cold,
But never bringing rain.
The soldiers in her tower guard
That kept her foes at bay
All fell in battle long ago,
Left rotting where they lay.
Her councilors and trusted friends,
The lovers in her bed,
And subjects of her barren land
Have long since turned and fled.
Shackled to her station by
Responsibility,
Bitter tears concealed behind
A mask of dignity.
Weariness hangs 'round her neck -
A heavy iron chain.
Her only royal virtues, now,
Are misery and pain.
Weakened by her life of woe,
My tattered princess falls,
Beaten down by fear and lack
Within her ruined walls.
Would that I could rescue her
From off her crumbling throne.
I fear that she will waste away,
Abandoned and alone.
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